Remembrance
by soaring-smiles
Summary: He dreams at night, of such strange, awful-wonderful things. Monsters and pretty girls, running like he's dying, and a rich, vibrant blue that lurks behind his eyes when he breathes. [11/Rose]


**I was wondering, the other day, what you all think of whouffle? I don't like it very much, really, but I'd kind of like to know the appeal. Of course, this is probably pointless, since you are reading an 11/Rose story right now, but you know. **

**I'm curious.**

**Can I take this oppotunity to thank all the people who review my stories- you're all wondrously awesome, and I love you to pieces.**

* * *

Things happen differently, you know.

In some universes, Rose Tyler went up with her job, or pulled a sick day when everything went to pot. In some she was killed by the mannequin, or Lola was sent down with the lottery money. In some it was her best mate Shireen whose hand was grabbed by a tall, blue-eyed madman, and once, Rose was the one doing the exploding.

Sometimes, she doesn't even work at Henrik's. Sometimes she doesn't even exist at all.

But how it happens this time, well, it's just a little bit stranger than all of that.

_(but just as splendid, in his superior opinion)_

* * *

He dreams at night, of such strange, awful-wonderful things. Monsters and pretty girls, running like he's dying, and a rich, vibrant blue that lurks behind his eyes when he breathes.

He is not a man; he is a god, a madman, a wanderer. He is forever itself; ancient and powerful, lord of Time, terrible. Burning.

And then he wakes up, and the cat is sitting on his face, and the only ancient thing is Herr Libst next door who snores like a chainsaw and nearly drowns himself in his own saliva, and the only thing that he is lord of is the men's department at

Henrik's.

_Such is life,_ he thinks, and boots the cat off so he can breathe.

* * *

He likes his job. The lovely little nametag pinned to his lapel, he likes that. John, it reads, and he often touches it, just to remind himself of his own solid John-ness.

And he likes the batty people he serves, and Wilson, the nice electrician, and exploring the department store at night with the master key he had made secretly. He especially likes the nightlight section, and often will neglect his post to wander over and regard the patterns of galaxies and stars cast onto the walls.

Only thing is, he keeps feeling...unsatisfied. But with what, he has no clue. Just this burning desire to go somewhere, the urging impulse to sprint along the streets of London, to just...scatter.

Then, it passes, and he shakes back into himself.

John is an ordinary man, after all. He stops for pastry and coffee at the bakery after (and sometimes before) work, he watches television in his crappy flat, he owns a cat called Pond, he cooks two-minute noodles (badly) and has a fondness for machines.

(his chin is pointy, but that's beside the point)

And, alright, he has painted the inside of his flat the blue he keeps dreaming about. Yes, he keeps a journal of all the impossible things he imagines, and there's a watch on his mantel he can't bring himself to throw away.

But that is irrelevant. In all the ways that matter, John Smith is entirely unremarkable.

Entirely human.

* * *

There's this girl.

She works in the ladies section, across from his. He once got close enough to see her nametag and it read Rose, which is just perfect for her. Long blonde hair, pale skin, dark eyes and eyebrows, a cheeky, pretty smile...

He shouldn't even be noticing her. He's obviously too old. Or something. It's inappropriate to date a colleague. She's probably got a boyfriend, and even if she hasn't, it's not likely she'd go for him.

Still. She's pretty, and smile-y, and he likes the way she handles all the nasty customers well, and once he saw her pay for a pair of underpants one woman didn't have enough money for. She seems kind, and beautiful and completely out of his reach.

So it's with complete trepidation he sees her, one Tuesday afternoon, approach him cheerfully.

"Hi," she says, "d'you mind if I borrow your phone? Mine's out of credit."

"Er..." He stares at her for a moment. "Of course. Yes." Fumbling in his pocket, he draws out a mobile he hardly ever uses, not least because it hasn't got any contacts. "Here."

She turns away when she dials the number, and instead of folding shirts, he studies the curve of her waist and hips, the soft fall of hair over her shoulders. When she starts talking he tries not to listen, but catches the drift anyway.

Something about her mother, and someone called Howard. Rose sounds irritated. He wonders if she likes chips.

Then, she's pressing it back into his hands, with an apologetic smile. "Thanks," she says, and taps his enamel name-tag with a chipped pink nail. "You're John, yeah?"

He raises his eyebrows, still searching for the words. "Um...yes. Yes. Me, John. John Smith."

_doctor?_

"Well, John Smith," she says teasingly, and he grins stupidly at his name coming out of her mouth, "I love the bow-tie." Her fingers sweep over it briefly, and then she steps back. "See you round," she calls happily, and strides back over to her side of the kingdom.

When he looks down at his phone, she's typed her name and number into his contacts, and he just about combusts from happiness.

* * *

"Rose talked to me today," he says to his cat. Pond meows. "I think I'll call her. Wait. Is that desperate? Will I come off desperate? I don't know."

Pond licks her shoulder, and John gives up on advice from his cat, getting up to pace around the small lounge. "I should call," he mutters, and swivels. "No I shouldn't."

Sparing a glance at the notebook on the coffee-table, he thinks of what the Doctor would do in this situation.

Blow something up, probably, but be brave. He should be brave. Taking a deep breath, he clicks her number, and the phone starts ringing.

"Rose Tyler," he says in a rush, when she answers. "How do you feel about chips?"

* * *

She's adorable in her tatty coat and beanie, and his lips quirk. The chippy is warm, though, and she sheds the layers quickly. All her bravado earlier seems to have evaporated, which is fine, because he's hardly Casanova.

"Hi," she breathes, and then laughs. "How'd you know just what I felt like?"

"Magic," he answers. "That, and I could never like a girl who didn't like chips."

The plump waitress takes their order, and he runs his eyes over Rose's face, pausing briefly at her mouth and eyes. She notices, and turns a wonderful shade of pink.

"So," he says, leaning on the table, "what made you invade my phone with your number?"

"Oh," she blows out a breath. "I saw you looking at me all the time, and..." she looks down, "Isortahadacrush onyouforthelasttwomonthssinceyoustartedworking."

That dizzying knowledge makes him feel lighter than air. "Good," he says, taking a bite.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looks at her hand, resting on the metal lightly, and reaches out with his own, ever-so-gently. She bites her lip quietly, trying to stop the curve of her mouth. He brushes a finger over her knuckle, and they both shiver.

"Um," he begins. "I know tomorrow's Saturday...would you want to go out with...me? There's this great picnic spot, and I think I do pretty good roast chicken, well, I think- it's okay if you say no, but...if-"

"Yes," she says simply. He stutters short. Smiles.

They eat their chips one-handed, and she puts just the right amount of salt, and when he walks her home, she manages to slip under his arm, the sneaky little thing.

She fits as perfectly as he imagined.

* * *

_-tardis and tegan- who is ace and why is she going up in flames, and romana-is she everything yet? blonde or brunette that is the question on eleven of his tongues, fires of gallifrey and koschei- they are burning_

_the family...has to fix it but they saw it-what is he now, he can't open it, they can't find him not ever or he'll_

_he'll_

_(he never gives second chances)_

* * *

Rose Tyler looks good in a dress. Beautiful, in fact. The hem wanders around, just above her knees, and for once, the sun is shining. It catches and sticks in her hair, dripping down to highlight her face.

"Hi," she says shyly, when he opens the door. In one hand he's got a wicker basket, and in the other he's got keys to the car he re-did himself. He calls it Sexy (which it is).

"Hello," he replies, just as giddily. "Are you ready for an adventure?"

Rose smiles at him. It makes his heart

_plural?_

speed.

"Yeah," she says, and when he takes her hand, he is reminded of somewhere he's never been.

This is what she tells him, lying on the grass, under the shade of a huge old oak with leaves like thin plates, eating the skin off of his chicken, and stealing bits of Jammy Dodger off his fingers.

This is what she tells him.

Rose Tyler is nineteen years old. She likes the colour pink, and going dancing, and kicking Jimmy Stones in the face. Once, she won a bronze medal in the under-sevens gymnastic competition in Jericho street, and her and her mum live alone on an Estate.

This is what he learns.

Rose Tyler has a weakness for sweets. She smiles with her tongue behind her teeth when he says things that make her giggle, and her eyes are the same color as whiskey. She wears a lot of mascara, and rings around her fingers and thumb, which feel cold and smooth against his palm. Her hand fits oh-so-perfectly in his.

(Rose Tyler tells him about not getting A-Levels. He thinks she's clever)

After the food is away, and they have exhausted the subject of her life, they turn to his.

Mum was a painter; that's where he learnt to draw. Dad had a minor position in the government. No brothers or sisters. Has a cat. A naughty, troublesome flame red thing he's only owned for about half a month.

Rose looks at him skeptically. "That's it?" she asks, pursing her mouth.

"Yeah...I'm a bit boring," he confesses, suddenly faced with the entire utter mediocrity of his existence. He sags.

"No you're not," she counters, flipping onto her stomach to stare at him. "You're fascinating." Her cheeks go red, but she's so determined it almost makes him smile.

"Not as much as you," he says gently, and suddenly the soft sunlight and leaves drifting around make him want to kiss her.

He takes her home after the day ends, her head resting on her hand, eyes shut, mouth parted ever so slightly. Her body shifts with the car, swaying gently. Her eyelashes are thick and dark, and he hopes she's dreaming of good things.

(him, preferably)

* * *

_tardis tardis tardis- oh, rassilon- bigger on the inside- cells scraping and changing and it hurts please please_

_don't open it they are close they are close they are close shh keep me safe from the false and empty man _

_(keep my hearts beating inside my shell's head)_

_what is gallifrey?_

_why is it cutting raw?_

_why am I alone?_

* * *

On Monday, starved of Rose after a day's absence, the supervisor tells them five times to stop flirting and get on with it.

He can't help it; trying to impress her has become almost second-nature. He tells her made-up stories about the customers, feels his smile at her laugh, says ridiculous things to absolute strangers and god, he feels so light.

"Ssh," he whispers, the two of them hidden behind the fur coat rack. He has both arms wrapped around her waist, her head turned into his shoulder. She's giggling so hard it makes both of them tremble.

(the way she presses against him is so worth being docked a day's pay for disturbing customers)

When afternoon comes crashing down, he waits for her to finish, holding her bag and both of them sprinting for the bus (even though his flat is in the opposite direction) Their feet pound pavement, and he's grinning, splitting his face- just so happy he feels like he could

_regenerate?_

explode into fireworks.

(they make it in the end, and she curls into him because it's cold- at least, that's what she says)

Oh, he is so in trouble now.

* * *

Rose makes him have tea with her mum, which is...interesting. Jackie is terrifying, but also makes a very good cuppa. He manages to dig himself into a hole explaining just how he knows her daughter, and thinks he is maybe 89.7% heading for a slap.

But Rose sits next to him on the couch, all warm and gold and lovely. They hold hands, and she knocks her bony knees into his, her head ducked down when he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You are so beautiful," he breathes, when her mother is out of earshot. Rose lights up so much he wonders if anyone's ever said that to her before.

She leans in. He holds his breath, pulse erratic, head spinning. He's going to kiss her for the first time on her mum's couch, and it's brilliant and he'll admit- maybe a better location but-

"I'll thank you not to do that on my sofa, ta," comes the voice of an irate Jackie. He startles so hard he falls into the floor with a bemused, sad expression.

Rose laughs.

(he's worried Jackie might hate him, but as he's leaving, she nods at him and says, "I think you'll be good for her.")

He hopes he is.

He hopes Rose Tyler is good for him, too.

* * *

And then there's the night when Henrik's is shut to all but the lucky couple who have an (illegal) spare key. Well, as he always says, he likes to take laws as a suggestion, rather than an order.

She clings to him tightly, half fascinated and half scared by the empty rooms and eerie, hollow displays. He skids on the floor, laughing and whooping because there is no one to hear. Eventually she loses the caution and throws herself into hide-and-seek, playing dress-up, tag in the crockery department.

One picture of a Rose-styled 80's nightmare, and two broken dishes later, he slows and stops before the nightlight exhibition. Rose crashes into him cheerfully, panting as she waits for the next adventure.

"Look," he says simply, and flicks on the master switch he created days ago. Stars scatter the walls and ceilings, constellations and light and colours thrown haphazardly, gorgeously. It pulls at something deep inside him, all that space.

"Oh," Rose breathes, sinking down onto the floor to gaze upwards. "Oh."

He reaches in the bag he brought, and pulls out two packets of nearly-cold chips. The look she sends him is open and tender, and they lean against each other, her weight resting on him comfortably. He strokes her hair lightly, presses his mouth to the crown of her head.

For some, the best dates have candle-lit dinners and lingerie and champagne. But right now, they are eating chips, and Rose is wearing battered jeans and he feels like he's glowing, burning, incandescent.

Oh, he thinks.

So this is what being in love is like.

* * *

_there's a girl _

_(isn't there always)_

_or dozens of them and so many faces he's had so many fingers and eyes and toes he is diffrent, different, different_

_save me_

_save her_

_he runs. they will find him. the watch, the watch- they're looking for the watch and him most of all- immortal lives come at a cost._

_theirs._

* * *

He takes her to his apartment, and she sits at his table and drinks tea and smiles at the colour of his walls and the cat. The edges of her sweater cover her thumbs when she raises the cup to her lips.

She feels so right.

And so, he shows her the diary. His. The battered old thing, ink drawings of his dreams, his adventures and aliens and friends. She traces the scrawled writing gingerly. Smiles.

"You think I'm insane," he says quietly, when she flips the thin, messy pages, eyes wide and mouth parted.

"No." She touches his hand. "I think it's amazing." And then she's crawling on the table top, sliding over to face his chair. "Tell me a story," she says, and tucks her knees under her chin. "Tell me all of them."

So...he does.

She falls asleep next to him on the couch, heart pattering against his- the both of them tangled with alien lords and blue, magic boxes. He stares down at the rise and fall of her chest, the slight flutter of her lashes.

Suddenly, abruptly, he wishes he could take her to Barcelona. Strange, that. He's never even been.

* * *

They kiss on a rainy afternoon, waiting for the bus. He can't help it, really, rain sliding down her mouth, and her shoulder bumping his when she laughs- the sharp breath and barely-there smile when he wipes away the droplets with his thumb.

Her mouth is warm, her hands gripping the front of his shirt, her body crushed to the lines of his, heartbeats in perfect tandem. He feels, he feels- oh, everything.

Rose doesn't go home that night. He steals her away instead, giggling and touching and snogging all the way to his flat- then his bed. Her skin is pale and glows under the nightlight he stole from Henrik's.

"I think," he begins, when she's wrapped around him- but then can't finish it, and kisses her instead, slow and raw.

"I know," she whispers, and he slips into her with a shiver.

* * *

He doesn't dream. Not of anything.

* * *

The morning dawns cold and grey, Rose pressed to his chest in his sheets, her bare shoulders vulnerable, the slope of her neck sweet, hair tossed carelessly across the pillowcase.

He has everything he's ever wanted.

So naturally, that is the day he loses it, too.

* * *

Three months, exactly, since he started working at Henrik's. Rose buys him a cupcake to celebrate, and curls on his lap in nothing but his shirt.

Best anniversary he's had.

But then, as he watches, the watch on the mantelpiece, the one he keeps safe, it clicks open. Light, golden, glorious, pours out, and then into his mouth.

It sets him on fire, and he screams. Pain, anger, grief- all those stupid awful memories howling in his head. Gallifrey- Gallifrey and Amy- Manhattan and the Master and he wants to be John, he wants Rose Tyler in the mornings and a wedding and a child- he wants it so badly-

Until he doesn't.

Until, he's sitting stock still, a terrified blonde girl shaking his shoulders, and he looks Rose right in the eyes. Dimly, he registers something pulling in his stomach.

"Hello," he says, slowly. "I'm the Doctor."

* * *

It takes some time for her to believe him. A whole trip to the TARDIS, a demonstration from the sonic screwdriver, a monologue on the Family and a thank god for the automatic timer on the Chameleon Arch.

Rose stands, a small little thing with her arms wrapped around herself, and cries a little. "Can you change back?" she asks him miserably. "Into him?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Okay," she whispers, wiping the tears away and smudging her mascara. "Um, do you want me to leave?"

Perhaps the biggest surprise of this whole debacle, he realises with a shock of panic, is that he doesn't.

"Come with me," he says in a rush, and grasps her hand- the first time since he's been himself.

She takes in a breath.

* * *

He does take her to Barcelona, in the end, and they sit on the edge of a glass building, legs swinging in empty air, fingers entwined. She leans her head against his shoulder.

"I'm so glad I met you," he tells her.

Kissing, as it turns out, doesn't vary too much- no matter what species he happens to be.


End file.
